Copper Coin Miracles
The animal men, screeching
like a piston in the lashing rain,
are the fast moving train of ghosts
I pull through the tunnel mind night.
The night is screaming hungry now,
emptied, rests in the dazzling breath
of thin fingered drunk winter skeleton
pointing at you, digging deep holes
in the shimmering, ice-shined snow.
I’ve set her brittle bones free and so
I softly step into the anemic sore light
searching for someone whose eyes flicker
in yellowed postcards, bleached photos,
green and blue shadows, the miasma eyes
of lucid loved heroes’ resurrection,
their hanged necks, suffocated blue lips
itch their panicked, agonized blood prints
on my skin, my body and my life.
I juggle shadows and copper coin
miracles for the sake of keeping
you still and amused, pointlessly
happily ever after alone. I want
you to burn my mouth, so I steal
the me you were and the you I was.
Returned to the sender.
We lie. To one another,
over
and over and
over again. Silence
to the end of our familiar days.
(Everything’s fine, yes, it is, cup of tea?)
The sundown
settles the uneven
edges of mind, mirror-broken.
I hear you creeping out,
hunting the animal men.
One by one, they die
as I fade
away.
(Right we are, aren’t we?)
Unstrung
I have no
recollections
of how the air thickened
in all these years,
how it suffocates…
numb shot electrodes,
wires in hell.
Graves sticking
into mind peeling
skin infections -
the toothpicks
of deathly boredom -
acupuncture to unheal
and lock.
Closing doors,
whispers that mock
emerge from curved lines
of strange breathing
larvae of people.
I am restored
in short footfall
of silence, it is
absence that cuts
small pieces of me.
This ice of frozen
red silky stream,
it is such rage.
Violent.
It warms up,
enigmatic
from the deep,
paces the steps
onward, seaward.
Fast.
I carry the bruised child
home.
Resisting. Fists
in the swollen heart.
Is it a boy, is it a girl?
Shouting in my face,
incredulous.
Skinny she-he creeps
through the tunnels
of my restless eyes,
industrious. Its
barren truth crawls
through jammed up teeth.
It’ll do us part.
For now, it is settling
down,
slowly wintering.
I am waiting, unstrung.
Petra Whiteley immigrated to UK in 1993 from the Czech Republic. Her poetry has appeared in Osprey, The Glasgow Review, ETC, Seven Circle Press, The Gloom Cupboard, Eviscerator Heaven, Unlikely Stories 2.0, Apt, Fissure, the Recusant and Paraphilia. The Glasgow Review, Osprey and Eviscerator Heaven also published her articles on political and current issues (left-wing position), history and methods of literary movements, with essays on current poets, lyricists and more articles on poetic movements commissioned for future issues. More of her poetry is also forthcoming in Clockwise Cat and excerpt from her dystopic novel (work in progress) in Paraphilia. Ettrick Forest Press published her first poetry collection The Nomad’s Trail in September 2008, Shadow Archer Press released her chapbook The Moulding of Seers in April 2009. She is currently writing children’s book. You can visit Petra on Facebook.
This is typical of the artistic brilliance and consistency of Petra Whiteley’s work. I recommend her chapbook and blog to all.
It is a joy to see her featured here. Much deserved.